Another Black Body: Fear

I am not going to sit here and try to convince people that racism exists.  I am not going to point out the endless examples of cultural appropriation in America and explain why they're wrong.  I am not going to argue about ownership of the n-word, or black on black crime, or whether police are in fact using excessive force.

I am also not going to argue about whether the sky is blue or the sun is hot.  I'm not.  I'm tired, uninterested, and frankly, there is nothing I could say that hasn't been said much more powerfully and thoroughly in the million essays, articles, speeches, and posts before this one.  So instead of trying to understand what's going on inside the heads and hearts of racists and what seems like an apathetic-American majority, I'm going to do the only productive work it seems I can do...which is to make sense of what the hell I'm feeling through all of this.

Ferguson, Baltimore, McKinney, Charleston...Every time a new story pops up, I'm hit with a barrage of feelings before I can even make sense of what has happened.  As I read, comment, and share the posts of my friends, I recognize similar responses, shared sentiments.  Most interestingly, I notice a familiar fluctuation of emotions that I think is worth some exploration.

This post will be the first in a series of posts as I attempt to explore those emotions, the complicated cavalcade of feelings that leave us simultaneously broken and emboldened, resigned and resilient.  I'm not entirely sure where this or going, or if I'll share it, or why I'm even writing it for that matter.  All I know is that when I have a lot of feelings, I have to write. Perhaps it's for no other reason than to offer a peek into the mind of one, and hope that it sparks some sense of comfort or solidarity in another.  I think it's safe to say we could all use a little unity right now.

 Each post will focus on a different feeling:  anger, heartbreak, fear, frustration, exhaustion/numbness, etc.  I think in truth, we all live in all of these stages forever.  They take turns at the forefront and do not operate in a particular order, but they're all constantly there.  Wherever we start, I believe we have to end with resilience.  Keep learning, keep educating, keep sharing, keep posting.  Keep talking for the victims who can no longer speak for themselves, and for the next generations who won't have a choice if we don't do the work now.

Anyway, here's the first of the series...

Another Black Body:  Fear

When we were young, fear was easy.  Darkness, monsters, spiders...all were terrifying but avoidable.  We could get a nightlight, or call mom and dad to shoo the bad dreams away.  As I've gotten older, fear has evolved into something much more sinister than my imagination could ever come up with.  Fear for my life, the lives of my loved ones.  Fear that my brother's dreads might draw too much attention while he was driving, walking, existing.  Fear that his brown skin would do the same once he cut the dreads off.  Fear that the "leaders of tomorrow" sitting across from me in Princeton University classrooms were just extremely well-read bigots.  The list goes on.

There is a lot to be afraid of, but there's one fear in particular that sickens me: the fear of being shamed for being vocal about these issues.  Staying up late ranting to friends, signing petitions, sharing stories on social media, asking questions, verbally jousting with trolls and the "but ALL lives matter" parade in the comments section of endless Facebook posts...it gets tiring, but I have the courage of my convictions and knowing that keeping the conversations going is the very least I can do to uphold the work of activists and martyrs before us.

That being said, it can get difficult when you notice friends quieting down when you enter a room, or accusing you of making things awkward for speaking your mind.  Branding you as "militant" or "loud," or some other sly way of saying, "I wish she would shut up about this stuff."  And then there are the friends who only see things in black and white; who think that because I love black people, I somehow don't love others.  Your love for your friends and the natural human desire to "fit in" can sometimes leave you feeling like maybe you're doing too much; maybe this isn't the crowd or now isn't the time for me to bring this up.

F*ck that.

 If we can only be friends when I'm sharing videos of cute puppies and babies, I'm not here for it.  If you can ask me how to twerk, but suddenly have no time to talk when real topics come up, I'm not here for it.  If I have to be afraid that our relationship is conditional upon how much I mention my blackness, I don't want it.  I've spent a lot of time being afraid of being that person:  that person that makes things uncomfortable, or can't take a joke, or gets too sensitive.  I've also spent a lot of time being uncomfortable, being the butt of racially insensitive jokes, and feeling sick to my stomach for letting that kind of bs make me question myself.  Intentional or not, shaming someone for being proud of the people and culture from which they come is ignorant and reprehensible.  Who needs enemies when you've got friends like that?

For anyone reading this who sees him/herself in this group of friends I've described, for anyone who is tired of everyone "making everything about race," or thinks we should just leave if we're so unhappy with America...Do I make you uncomfortable?  Tough.  Racism and people who wear socks with sandals make me uncomfortable.  But they, like my opinions, aren't going away either.  Woops.

For anyone reading this who, like me, has ever found themselves feeling embarrassed for their views, of afraid to have an opinion...don't be too hard on yourselves.  Fake friends and the media shame us enough without us doing it to ourselves.  Hold your head up and know that you'll sleep better for having spoken your truth.  Don't be afraid to have feelings or to voice them.  There are bigger things to be afraid of...like, you know, being Black in America.

-Kenziekenzz <3